


This Side of Paradise (Isn't What It Seems)

by siennavie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fanart, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He steps back, a curse on his lips, eyes squeezed shut."</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Side of Paradise (Isn't What It Seems)

The midday sun is brilliant and potent in a cloudless sky. With its undivided attention on them, the sand and water down below practically glow. The Winchesters had taken one look around the pristine, vacant beach, and Sam had gone jogging back the way they had come, over sand dunes and through a thicket of trees that effectively shielded this piece of paradise, to get his swim trunks from the Impala. "Don't forget the beer," Dean had yelled at his brother's retreating back.

Dean wanders a little farther down the beach, shields his eyes with a hand as he squints to look out at the infinite blue sky and even bluer water. The shimmering of the waves is hypnotic, and as a peacefulness settles over Dean, he thinks, this is what they fight for, to have moments like this. 

Another wave washes ashore, farther than its previous counterparts, and in its footprint, a brilliant shine catches his attention. He steps closer, curious, but a beam of sunlight refracts off the object and catches him right in the eyes. He steps back, a curse on his lips, eyes squeezed shut. His vision is whited out by the glare, and by the time it clears enough for him to look again, whatever it was must have disappeared with the last wave. 

Blinking away some lingering white spots, he's startled to look up and see Sam back. And apparently wasting no time with ocean fun.

Sam is shirtless and standing waist-deep in the gently rolling surf, a bronze centerpiece on a canvas of blue. Foamy waves yield where they meet sculpted flesh and bone, and Dean's mouth dries up like the desert at high noon. 

Sam is grinning wide, all pearly white teeth, cocking his head as if perfectly aware of the impact he's having on Dean. Trails of water carve cooling paths down his bare chest, and as a fresh bead of sweat rolls down Dean's temple, he thinks that maybe his brother has the right idea. Rolled up shirtsleeves and jeans is not nearly enough relief. So when Sam waves for Dean to join him, Dean's already halfway convinced. 

Then a sudden chill wind breaks across his cheeks. And instead of feeling refreshing, it makes Dean shudder and the hairs on his neck stand on end. His senses are on alert as he scans the surrounding beach; but except for a flock of seagulls circling overhead, it's empty as far as he can tell. 

With vague apprehension, Dean returns his attention to Sam, whose joyfulness seems unperturbed as he continues beckoning.

Although it's more than a little toasty now inside his own skin, Dean reconsiders and shakes his head. Thinks that one Winchester naked and vulnerable is enough. He'll settle for taking watch, let his little brother enjoy this rare moment to be carefree.

Sam is undeterred though, and waves even more animatedly. 

Dean's uneasiness makes him jerk his head more sharply than intended in a firm no. The sky darkens suddenly, and Dean looks up, surprised yet also relieved. A large bank of clouds are rolling in. Even though they're an unpleasant shade of gray, at least now there's cover from the sun's strong rays.

The turn in the weather seems to complement his brother's shifting mood. Sam is standing stock-still and staring straight at Dean, his gloominess palpable even from a distance. His gaze is fixed and intense, and just as it starts to feel uncomfortable and strange—when Dean starts to sweat for reasons other than the heat—Sam turns his back and dives into an oncoming wave.

When Sam doesn't resurface after a few heartbeats, Dean frowns. Several seconds later, his fingers start to twitch. He's anything but casual as his eyes skim the waves, looking for a sign of his brother. More seconds pass in vain. Dean's heart picks up speed as his feet move forward on autopilot. 

He doesn't feel the burn of fresh, hot sand on his soles or notice when the sharp grains beneath his feet turn spongy. He hits the water's edge at a run, splashing stinging, salty droplets in every direction as he stumbles towards the last place he saw his brother.

He's only knee-deep and going nowhere near fast enough when the ocean surface erupts violently, and Dean crashes to a stop, wide-eyed and mouth agape. The whorl of water quickly settles and in the center of the spray, looking way too smug as he flips sopping wet hair out of his eyes, is Sam. 

Dean's heart pounds absurdly loud in his ears. 

He wants to punch Sam's gloating face. 

Yet, from this short distance, where Dean can see every cut and curve of muscle, every rivulet of water sliding down his brother's body, greedy beads defying gravity to cling to sun-kissed skin—he also wants to grab Sam and kiss him.

More so when Sam's got him pinned with shrewd eyes, glistening dark brown and green like deep water, and a shark-like smile. One reedy hand stretches out towards Dean, and Dean shivers. When the hand beckons, he moves forward without a second thought, the icy water invigorating on his hot flesh. He's wading deeper into the sea, uncaring that he's fully-clothed, drawn like a heat-seeking missile to his brother. 

Smooth grains of sand tickle in-between his toes. Silky tendrils of seaweed drift between the curves of his bare calves. A couple of vines settle around his ankles, and Dean wiggles his feet to dislodge them, but they linger stubbornly. He steps high, but they follow and crowd closer to him instead of falling away. When he pulls against them, they resist, and Dean only has a brief moment to think, _What the—_ , before the coils snap tight and tug with greater force and solidity than a riptide. He gets one fleeting glimpse of Sam's— _NOT Sam_ , his mind screams—now greenish-black smiling face before he's submerged in a cloud of water, breath punched from him in a shocked "whoosh." Another sharp tug and all traces of light give way to darkness.

It's only his body's protective instinct that keeps him from immediately inhaling a lungful of water. He knows he's panicking and quickly using up his oxygen reserves as he reaches down, pulling and clawing at any tendril in reach. But they're fibrous and slippery and impervious to his attack, so he switches to swinging his arms frantically, straining for the surface. But he's only human, and whatever this thing is that's latched onto him clearly is not. Another tendril seizes hold of his left shin. He squirms and kicks with all his strength, reaches desperately for daylight with outstretched fingertips, but his right wrist is caught in yet another painful grip.

_NoNoNO!_

Dean strikes out again and again, but they're weak echoes of his earlier efforts; the burning in his veins and the pressure in his skull are at near-intolerable levels now. He can't help but think, _This is it_. And the realization is like an electrical shock to his system; a powerful surge of anger and anguish that makes his body recoil and jerk erratically in one final attempt to free himself from his trap. To his surprise, his right wrist slips free. But his victory is brief, and his hand is quickly captured again.

But somewhere, through the fog in his brain, is the awareness that those are lean, strong fingers squeezing his own, vise-like and painful, but _human_ …and Dean finds a spark of hope to cling to as blackness overtakes him.

*****

Dean wakes up coughing water, coarse sand scratching the tender skin of his cheek. When his coughing finally subsides, he feels hands rolling him over onto his back. He flinches when bright white light hits his retinas. Then a shadow mercifully settles over him. He carefully opens his eyes and finds Sam's anxious face, dripping seawater from hair to nose, hovering over his. His name is being called, but it takes a moment for the noise to sync with Sam's mouth.

He manages to croak out, "M'okay, S'm," before another coughing fit hits. Sam helps him onto his side again and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder until the coughing subsides.

Dean swallows down a groan as he rolls back. Upon seeing worried brown eyes, Dean convinces his left hand to flop—he doesn't quite manage the reassuring pat—onto Sam's knee; the jeans beneath his palm are damp and chilly. His brother seems to relax a bit with his touch, although his face remains screwed up in that awful way.

"Dean, I have to get these off of you."

"Hm?"

"I have to get these off of you," Sam says again, louder and gesturing somewhere at Dean's lower half.

It's too much work to lift his head and see what his brother is talking about, so he simply says, "What're you waiting for then?"

Sam rolls his eyes—the familiarity brings a ghost of a smile to Dean's lips—and gets to work.

Although he can't see what Sam is doing, he definitely feels it. Dean involuntarily shouts as a line of fire streaks down his left shin and he hears a murmured, "Sorry." Raising himself up on his elbows, he finds Sam holding up a length of deep purple vine, blackish water dripping from its leaves onto the ground. Sam sets the piece down beside him and, with a better view now, Dean can see that one end is cleanly sliced through. Running down the middle of the vine is a row of tiny barbs, the tips colored red. Dean looks down at his leg, below the rolled-up cuff of his jeans, and finds the matching set of tiny puncture wounds stretching from knee to ankle. He groans when he spies the other vines that have yet to be removed. 

Sam bends his legs at the knees and instructs him to "Keep them up." He bites his tongue and locks his knees as Sam, more carefully now, goes about extricating the rest.

When the last one is added to the scarily sizable pile, Sam climbs to his feet saying, "I'll be right back," and leaves Dean on his back to contemplate clear blue sky, not a single gray cloud in sight.

It takes a few minutes for his brother to return, chest heaving from obvious exertion, with a haul of water bottles and their first aid kit. With the pain having receded to a dull throb and Sam focused on bandaging his wounds, Dean takes the moment to furtively study his brother. He prides himself on knowing every inch of his brother inside and out. _How did he not realize that thing wasn't Sam?_ If he was being reasonable, he would say that there had surely been magic involved. But that doesn't lessen the blow to his ego. He's busy comparing His Sam and Not Sam, and recommitting every mole and scar to memory up until the moment His Sam stands and offers him a hand up. 

Only then does Dean notice the fresh scratches on his brother's hand and arm; one looks particularly deep and red. Sam doesn't give him time to dwell on it though, hauling him up quickly and surely into a fierce embrace.

They're both sticky and gritty; seawater, sweat, and sand all drying under the blistering heat of the sun; but Dean wouldn't wish for anything else right now. He buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck and lets his lips linger on his brother's collarbone in apology. Sam's hands clench around his shirt before relaxing to rub soothing circles on his back. Then Sam pulls back and cups his face in both hands, the fierceness returning in one intense kiss before he lets Dean go.

Dean insists on staying nearby as Sam salts the monster fragments and sets them ablaze. Then, together, they make their way back to the car with promises to come back, hunt down and roast the rest of the S.O.B.

*****

The End

*****

**Cover Art**

  


**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to firesign10 for helping me with the finishing touches! After a year, it's finally done! Now maybe I can move on to those other wips :)


End file.
